Fasten Your Seatbelts
by OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles
Summary: Arthur is a nervous flyer, though he's loath to admit it. That's why he always flies first class, so he can stretch out and relax as much as possible. But that won't help him now after a job has gone sour and he and Eames have to get out of the country incognito. No lavish hotels, no town cars, no priority seating and no first class seat. Luckily Eames may be of some use yet.


**Fasten Your Seatbelts**

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or the characters

Rating: T

Pairing: Arthur/Eames

Summary: Arthur is a nervous flyer, though he's loath to admit it. That's why he always flies first class, so he can stretch out and relax as much as possible. But that won't help him now after a job has gone sour and he and Eames have to get out of the country incognito. No lavish hotels, no town cars, no priority seating and _no_ first class seat. Luckily Eames may be of some use yet.

* * *

"Time to get up, darling," Eames spoke through the heavy motel door, body half-turned to watch the parking lot with a sharp eye.

"I refuse to acknowledge that." The voice drifted back through the door, muffled and brusque.

Eames rolled his eyes fondly, cleared his throat loudly, and tried again. "Time to get up, _Arthur_." A moment later he heard the door locks being undone and then the door opened for him. Eames gave Arthur a critical once-over. "Do I need to have a vocabulary lesson with you? Beginning with the definition of '_incognito_'?"

Arthur looked down at himself, a slight furrow to his brow. True, he had dressed down from his usual three-piece suit – waistcoat and tie abandoned – but the jacket and pants were still clearly tailor-made. "I'm dressed casual," Arthur defended. "Lots of people dress like this when they fly."

"No, Arthur," Eames chuckled. "People in first class dress like that. Most people in economy wear sweatpants and t-shirts." Arthur grimaced at the mention of economy class. "Oh, come on," Eames laughed louder now. "Economy class isn't _that_ bad."

Arthur's scowl faded into a guilty frown. "It's not that I look down on it..."

Eames swallowed his words and his humour. For a second time he took in the shadows under Arthur's eyes, the twitch of his mouth caused by a clenched jaw. He offered his most relaxed smile and softened his tone. "I know you're just a nervous flyer," he reassured.

Arthur really must not have slept well the night before because he scowled again and closed the door in Eames' face. "I am not a nervous flyer!" came through the door.

Eames checked his watch. "Our taxi is going to be here any minute."

"Go check out," Arthur ordered, his voice further away from the door now. "I'll meet you in the lobby."

Eames considered apologizing – just because Arthur bore Eames' teasing most days didn't mean the right moment was when he was tired and anxious – but eventually decided to just do as he was told. He picked up his small bag and slung it over his shoulder, taking the stairs down and walking across the parking lot to the lobby.

By the time Eames was finished checking out and was sliding his key across the counter, the bell on the door behind him chimed. Eames turned and felt his heart jump and flutter the way he had grown accustomed to every time he was on a job with Arthur. Eames would forever be slightly baffled by Arthur's ability to look impeccable no matter what he was wearing. In the short time since Eames left Arthur had replaced his suit pants with a pair of dark jeans and had pulled a cotton sweater over his white button-up shirt, his suit jacket packed away in his neat little travel bag.

Arthur met his gaze and gave a curt nod before striding to the counter. Eames stood by the lobby door silently, watching for their taxi. He pretended not to notice when Arthur turned to study him for a moment when the motel clerk informed him that his room had already been paid for. The taxi pulled up as Eames heard a jangle of keys passing hands and then Arthur was at his side, pushing past him to step outside but holding the door open for Eames without comment.

The taxi drive to the airport was quiet, only the sound of the car radio crackling through the speakers. Eames would have enjoyed listening to it to pass the time but everything was in Russian and Eames' Russian was shoddy at best. Instead Eames rested his forehead against the window, watching the city pass him by while Arthur shuffled through a folder of paper beside him.

Eames would have liked to stay longer and do a bit of sightseeing – it was his first time in Russia while the weather was warm – but knew it wasn't safe. The Extractor that had approached him with the job – a charming young woman by the name of Eliza – had ended up being less skilled than she professed. The job had gone sour when her lack of subtly alerted the Mark, a relatively prominent mob boss, and he had promptly woken up and called for backup.

Pretty and charismatic but not too bright, Eliza had not trusted Arthur enough to follow his plan of getting them out of the country and had gone her own way. Eames doubted he would ever hear from her again. It was a shame, really; she had been a fine partner to cheat with in cards and had had a delightful smile. It was for the better though; Eames hated himself for endangering Arthur by bringing him in on the job in the first place. Arthur hadn't said anything about it, which Eames appreciated, but it didn't make Eames chide himself any less harshly.

The airport was busy when they arrived, as they had planned. While airport security was tight and cameras would always be around, it was harder for anyone to identify specific faces in a constant mass of people. They had no luggage to check in and as they approached the row of self-serve kiosks Arthur handed Eames a little slip of paper before walking further to his own kiosk. Eames looked down and smiled when he found his booking reference number written there in Arthur's neat script.

He collected his boarding pass and met Arthur by security, not allowing himself to fidget when they got separated into different security lines. Eames did stand on the other side though, waiting quietly for Arthur to make his way through. Eames didn't know why he was so nervous – there was no reason for anyone to stop them here with Eames' impeccable forgeries – but he didn't remember to breathe until Arthur left the line with his shoes in hand and a tiny satisfied smile on his lips.

They moved to a bench together without words, Arthur sitting to slip his shoes back on while Eames leaned against the wall beside him. He had a bad habit of hovering, he knew, but Arthur didn't mention it. Eames realized with an odd rush of warmth that he had never seen Arthur in socked feet before; he was always in dress or work shoes. There was something about seeing Arthur's toes wiggle in the containing black fabric of his sock as Arthur worked on retying the laces of his first shoe that was curiously intimate.

Arthur straightened when he was finished and they found their gate and a tiny cafe tucked into the wall. The food was overpriced and not very filling but it was more than they had been offered at the rundown motel a ways off a less-used freeway. Occasionally one of them would start up a conversation but it never lasted long, both of them too focused on watching their surroundings and watching the clock.

They still had another thirty minutes before their plane began to board so Eames reached into his bag and pulled out his deck of cards. He set it on the table, Arthur's eyes lifting from his watch to the cards, to Eames, and then back down to the cards. "Do we have time?"

"You know we do," Eames said and picked up the box, slipping the deck of cards out.

"What if they call boarding for our plane early?" Arthur posed, though his eyes watched with rapture as Eames began shuffling the deck with a few flourishes thrown in for show.

"When has an airport ever been _early_?" Eames retaliated, raising an eyebrow. Before Arthur could think of some argument, Eames continued. "I can see our gate from here. We'll pack up when I see people lining up."

Placated for the moment, Arthur picked up the cards he had been dealt and looked them over. Arthur wasn't a particularly bad card player. He couldn't cheat to save his life but when Eames played by the rules Arthur could generally offer a genuine challenge. But today he was tired and anxious, not fully focused and letting a lot of his tells rise to the surface for Eames' greedy eyes. Eames did his best to let Arthur win a few rounds but earned a glare when Arthur caught on to him, and by then their gate was paging first class passengers so they both gave up.

When they walked over to the gate Eames had to grab Arthur's wrist and hold him back, Arthur's feet automatically taking him to the back of the first class priority line. Arthur sent him a questioning look over his shoulder and then slumped as he remembered. It took Eames an extra few seconds to let go of Arthur's wrist when he wasn't immediately shaken off.

"You'll be fine," Eames reassured Arthur when the general boarding call was made.

"I know." Arthur's voice was tight.

"How many times have you flown before?" he asked, not needing an answer to prove his point. "You know that statistically—"

"I know the statistics, _thank you_," Arthur cut him off harshly. Eames flinched at the tone, surprised and a little hurt. He and Arthur bickered and teased often, it was true, but true anger had rarely come into it. Arthur looked over at him and then quickly away, shame on his face as he winced and crossed his arms. "I'm sorry."

Eames raised a hand and hesitantly rested it on Arthur's shoulder. He could feel the tense muscles beneath his palm, but he wasn't knocked away. Taking this as a good sign, Eames subtly squeezed Arthur's shoulder, massaging and passing on some warmth. "Talk to me."

Arthur took a deep breath in, held it, and huffed it out. He wouldn't meet Eames' eyes but his shoulders had begun to relax a bit. "I'm claustrophobic. It's completely manageable with the extra space in first class, but the thought of being crammed into a plane with people all around me in economy..." The shudder traveled into Eames' hand where they were connected.

Eames squeezed Arthur's shoulder again, relishing in the brief permission to _touch_, and stepped around until he was facing Arthur directly. He had a smile on his lips and while he knew a hug would be unwelcome, it didn't stifle the desire. "I think I know something that can help. You'll just have to get to your seat and sit down first. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'm not five," Arthur groused, moving to join the boarding line. Eames' hand fell to his side and he felt it twitch toward Arthur's retreating back. "I don't need you holding my hand."

Eames glanced down to Arthur's hand swaying by his side, his other hand full with his passport and boarding pass. "Are you sure?" Eames questioned teasing when he joined the line behind Arthur, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I wouldn't mind."

Arthur looked back to him with a quizzical look and Eames swallowed suddenly, wondering if he had gone too far. But Arthur didn't question him, didn't say anything at all as he was called forward to the next attendant to show his documents. Eames followed behind and withheld any further comments as they got onto the plane and manoeuvred down the narrow aisle to find their seats.

With everything planned, Eames took the window seat and Arthur took the seat beside him, the aisle seat offering some extra open space to appease Arthur's claustrophobia. They shoved their bags under the seats in front of them and buckled up their seatbelts. Arthur sat rigid in his seat as Eames fiddled with the vent over his head and the window cover.

Originally Eames was planning to wait until they got in the air, not wanting to get Arthur asleep just to have him wake up again on take-off. But he could hear Arthur's breathing shorten as he edged towards hyperventilating, Arthur's hand clutching the armrest so tightly his knuckles were white, and knew that there was no value in waiting. Once he was sure the flight attendants had no reason to bother them – seats upright, trays stowed – Eames turned to Arthur.

"Alright, what you're going to do is close your eyes and listen to my voice," Eames explained, leaning a bit closer so that Arthur could hear him over the air vents and the last-minute tests of the plane mechanics. "You're going to visualize what I describe."

Arthur gave Eames a sceptical look. "That's your master plan? I think I'd be better off distracting myself with a book."

"You can if you want," Eames said. "But you're exhausted and some sleep could do you good." Arthur still didn't look convinced. "You of all people know the strength of visualization," Eames scolded him lightly. "And this might help."

Arthur looked like he wanted to protest, and for a moment Eames thought he was going to. But then Arthur nodded his agreement, sat back comfortably against the seat, and let his eyes slip closed. "Anything in particular you're going to have me visualizing?" Actual curiosity was in Arthur's voice.

"It's the scene I use when I meditate," Eames admitted, trying not to feel shy. Arthur's eyes opened a crack, looking at him, but Eames clicked his tongue. "No peeking." Arthur rested his head back against the headrest and Eames swept his gaze over his Point Man once, fondly, and then focused. "First, relax your hand. You don't need to be tearing the plane to pieces."

He touched tentative fingertips to the top of Arthur's hand, which had gripped the armrest tighter when the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Arthur gave a short laugh and released the armrest, and while Eames wanted to take that hand and massage the tension out of it, he allowed Arthur to set both hands in his lap precisely. Then, when he was sure Arthur was ready, Eames began.

Eames described a long wooden gate built of narrow logs up on a hill, all but the gate and two wooden fence posts on either side rotted away from frequent rain and fog. He spoke of how easy it would be to climb up and sit on the gate, and the distance visible up on that hill. Green grass carpeting the earth into the far distance where morning fog half hid a small grove of trees at the base of the next hill.

Eames told Arthur what it would be like to sit on that gate and watch the sun sink below the next hill. He described how skin would turn gold, evening birds singing their farewell for the day as the sky darkened. The grass would turn from red to purple as the shadows lengthened and although the air would turn chilled, the sun's heat would remain beneath skin.

Last, Eames depicted the enduring quiet of that place, and the vast openness that could almost be overwhelming but would really only inspire curiosity and courage; to know what was beyond the next hill, where the sun disappeared to each day, what lay beyond the fields of green and wildflowers.

The one thing Eames didn't describe was the little cottage that would sit, quaint and welcoming behind the gate. It was a cottage that held many memories for Eames. It was his home, but he wouldn't speak of it until Arthur asked. And even though Eames couldn't explain why, he felt certain that Arthur _would_ ask, someday.

As the engines roared to life and the plane lifted into the air, Eames felt Arthur's head fall over onto his shoulder. Eames looked over carefully and saw that Arthur's eyes were still closed, his Point Man breathing evenly. Fast asleep. Eames smiled, pleased and overtaken by that familiar fluttering of his heart. Timidly Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur's forehead and then settled back in his seat to allow Arthur to continue sleeping peacefully. After a short while Eames felt his own eyes drifting closed, and his smile remained in place as he imagined two people instead of one sitting on the gate overlooking the sunset.

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